An Ever Fixed Mark
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Royai. "Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark..." That is the mark that ties them together, scrawled across her back, like the mark of his signet ring. And now, they are inseparable.


**Author's Note: I got this idea quite a while ago, and as I daydreamed about it over and over, I came up with a good two-dozen variations on it. This is probably the least melodramatic one, but then as soon as I finished it I started worrying it wasn't emotional _enough._ So I'd like some input, if you don't mind, on whether this feels natural, in-character, etc. I just can't tell anymore -_-**

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
>Admit impediments. Love is not love<br>Which alters when it alteration finds,  
>Or bends with the remover to remove.<br>O no! It is an ever-fix__é__d mark  
>That looks on tempests and is never shaken;<br>It is the star to every wandering bark,  
>Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.<br>Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
>Within his bending sickle's compass come;<br>Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
>But bears it out even to the edge of doom.<br>If this be error and upon me proved,  
>I never writ, nor no man ever loved.<em>

_- William Shakespeare_

Roy Mustang softly closed the door behind him and draped his coat over the back of the chair that sat in the corner. The flat that Hawkeye rented was a tiny place, with only three rooms, but it was all she could afford. Roy set the bag of groceries he'd brought onto the little table in the corner of the main room taken up with the stove, icebox, and sink. He'd whip something up for dinner later, but first he had to check on her.

Carefully pushing open the door and hoping it wouldn't squeak, Roy poked his head into the small bedroom. Hawkeye lay in the bed, of course, where she had remained for the past week with only brief trips to the bathroom. He saw in a moment that she was awake, and waiting for him: She lay on her stomach, the light sheet pulled down to reveal her bare back. The loose shirt she had been wearing for the past few days lay crumpled on the floor next to her bed, and Roy made a mental note to take some laundry down to the laundromat on the corner.

"I'm awake," she reminded him, and he quickly stepped inside.

"How are you feeling?" Roy asked gently, pulling his chair back up to the bed. He had to put it in the corner whenever Hawkeye needed to get out of bed; the room was so small the chair could hardly be wedged between the wall and the little bedside cabinet now littered with bottles of pills and half-empty glasses of water.

"Better, I think." She smiled faintly. "I tried to get up and fix you something, but..."

"Don't do anything stupid," he chided her, bending over her back. "It's going to take a while to heal."

Silence fell on them as Roy began to peel back the gauze on the lower right dressing. Hawkeye was absently chewing on the corner of the pillow she had pressed against her side, and Roy could only think of how he wished he could be doing anything else. Every time he checked her burns, every time he glimpsed the ugly black marks tattooed all across her back, he could feel the guilt rising inside him like bile.

Roy pulled off the dressing that covered the writing next to the flame symbol at the top and tried not to feel sick as he examined the blisters. It didn't make things any better that Hawkeye had made the decision – both to show him the tattoo in the first place, and to ask him to burn it beyond recognition. It was still _he_ who had fanned the flames higher and higher, _he_ who had turned this destructive alchemy on innocent people, _he _who had caused her so much pain.

Once he had put new dressings on the two smaller wounds, Roy turned reluctantly to the third. The agreement had been to burn only the key parts of the circle, the ones that were crucial to understanding how the rest of the symbols fit together. It would have killed her to burn her entire back deep enough to erase the tattoo, so this was the best they could do. But the essential figures had been drawn across the upper left section of her back, curling up onto her shoulder blade. The skin was raw red and covered with blisters; Roy noticed Hawkeye silently digging her fingers deeper into her pillow as he tried to pull the gauze away gently.

Unfortunately, though Roy had become an expert at controlling flames, to such an extent that he could burn her skin this precisely without harming any more of her than necessary, he knew next to nothing about how to treat burns. He had received his own share of burns in the early days, but those had only been superficial and had healed quickly on their own. He tried to be gentle, but every time Hawkeye caught her breath or bit harder on the corner of the pillow, his gut twisted. He was the one to blame, so why did she have to suffer in his place?

"All done," he finally breathed, and they both relaxed. While Hawkeye took her pain pill, Roy grabbed the rag hanging on the bedpost and took it to the bathroom to soak it with cold water again. He tossed the dirty dressings into the trash can under the sink, and for a moment all he could do was stare at them. The little trash can was now full of dressings, gauze, and tape soaked in blood, pus, and that burn cream he had picked up at the pharmacy. All testament to what he had done. That was what flame alchemy led to. Blood and death.

It was a comfort to step back out of the bathroom and see Hawkeye, exhausted but living, stretched out on her stomach. Flame alchemy would leave her scarred forever, but at least he could keep her alive.

He'd thought she was asleep, but when he gently wiped away the sweat from her face, Hawkeye opened her eyes and gave him another weak smile. "Thank you."

Roy opened his mouth to say, _It's the least I can do._ Somehow it came out, "I love you."

They stared at each other. There it was, out in the open, emerging from the cunning hiding places it had found over the years. Their eyes would meet, her fingers would brush across his arm, and he would tell her to be careful, but they were never certain. They never voiced the question, never spoke the answer; they didn't know if they dared. If they deserved it. Roy still wasn't sure. Slowly, Hawkeye's fingers curled around his wrist, clutching him as tightly as she had been clutching her pillow. Then, just as slowly, she let go. "I know," she murmured. "That's why I asked you, and no one else."

"That obvious, huh?" Roy chuckled, sinking to his knees by the bed.

"I knew when you saw my back for the first time." She reached out, not even wincing when her shoulder muscles pulled against the burnt tissue, and grasped his collar. "You didn't want to study the array at first...just as you didn't want to burn my back."

She was pulling him closer, and all he could see was her round, chestnut-brown eyes. "I didn't want to hurt you."

Hawkeye slipped her hand behind his head and pressed their lips together...and Roy understood. _You never have. So stop blaming yourself, because I don't._

They broke apart, and even though it felt far too short, Roy was out of breath. He ran a finger down her smooth, if sweaty, cheek. "Well then," he said, smirking as he felt his heart lift, freed from the guilt that had been bearing down on him all week. "Would my lovely prophetess also know that I was considering asking her to marry me once she recovered?"

She smiled in a way that made Roy think she was distancing herself from him again. "Unfortunately, I plan to remain in the military, sir. And if anyone were to know...I would become a liability to you and your ambitions."

But he wasn't letting her go that easily. Roy grasped her hand and patted it reassuringly. "Then we'll just have to keep it a secret, won't we, Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye gave him a stern look. "Do you realize how _long_ it could be before you reach your goal?"

He smiled placidly, even though his heart ached. It could take ten, even twenty years before he could rise to the position of Fuhrer. They would grow old, deny themselves and each other, pass up a dozen chances for youthful bliss. Would it be worth all that? Roy pressed her hand between his before he let it go. "I'm prepared to wait if you are."

* * *

><p>The last day Mustang spent in the old office had an almost festive air. It wasn't just his victory. All his subordinates had helped him reach this point, and they chattered cheerfully as they helped him pack up and finish up the last few pieces of paperwork that didn't seem as tiresome as usual. The only thing that dampened the air of triumph for Jean Havoc was Hawkeye.<p>

It was ironic that Jean would be so bothered by Hawkeye's happiness. They were all happy, of course, but Hawkeye was practically _glowing._ Hawkeye wasn't usually irritable, but her smiles were rare. A slight lifting of the corners of her mouth, and a softening around her eyes, was usually the most you could ask for. Today...she was _beaming._ She was just as focused and diligent as always, but there was a lightness to her movements that he had never seen before.

Hawkeye was Jean's friend, and had been since their time in the Academy, so he was glad she was happy. Heck, he was pretty happy himself; Amestris was about to get the best Fuhrer President they'd had in a century. They'd promised to get Mustang this far, and they'd achieved their goal, so in a way their work was done; now it was up to Mustang himself. Hawkeye apparently thought so, because she was even now filling out her resignation.

She'd been with Mustang the longest out of them all, and had probably worked twice as hard as anyone else, so she deserved retirement. Jean just wished she didn't have to look so _happy_ about it. The men had been a handful for her at times, and she always used to complain about being their babysitter, but...well, they were going to _miss_ her. Was it really too much to ask her to miss them as well?

With a small, satisfied nod, Hawkeye set down her pen and took the forms to Mustang, who was clearing out his desk at the back of the room. Jean noticed a general lessening of the noise in the office, and knew they were all watching to see what Mustang's reaction would be. But Mustang just said, "Right," and glanced over the form before returning to his task. "It seems to be in order."

Jean shared an incredulous look with Breda, but Hawkeye was talking.

"Sir, I think now would be a good-"

"Oh, of course."

Then, as if they were returning borrowed money, they both pulled out their dog tags and unhooked the chains to retrieve matching gold rings. Nonchalantly, they exchanged the engagement rings, slipped them on their fingers, and tucked their dog tags back out of sight.

No one was even pretending to work anymore. Jean became aware that his mouth was hanging open, and quickly shut it as Hawkeye turned around again. Normally, she would snap at them to get back to work, but today she just smiled and crossed to her desk again, beginning to empty her drawers.

"Hey, Hav," Breda hissed, sidling up to him, "since when are they-"

"Don't ask me!" Jean muttered, now staring at Mustang, who had started to whistle. Naturally, they had all figured out that Mustang and Hawkeye loved each other. Jean wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but even he had deciphered the meaning behind all those looks, and had understood why they had to keep it under wraps. But _this..._

Hawkeye caught Jean staring at her ring and smiled yet again. "Don't worry, Havoc, you're invited too."

"T-To what?"

A crumpled wad of paper hit Jean on the side of his head. "To the wedding, you dunce!" Mustang called. He laughed, and Jean became convinced: The world had gone crazy.


End file.
